


What happens to a dream deferred

by Serotiny



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Diego Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Gen, Introspection, POV Diego Hargreeves, Pre-Series, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24576223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serotiny/pseuds/Serotiny
Summary: When Diego comes back from a successful mission—or rather an impromptu dip in a frigid pond—he must still weather an austere father, nosy siblings, and other hopes deferred.
Relationships: Diego Hargreeves & Everyone
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44





	What happens to a dream deferred

**Author's Note:**

> ~~October 2019 January 2020~~ June 2020
> 
> **Wow, I’m just super inspired by this new Netflix piece! Umbrella Academy has drawn me back (a year is both a long and short time), at least in a writing capacity. I did notice a sore lack of Diego-focused fic out in this burgeoning fandom. So…does this rectify it, my edgy Batman?**
> 
> **Later (ie 2020) Note: ermmm, maybe no so burgeoning after all?**

What happens to a dream deferred

_Swish-swish._

The kids, previously resembling mini-pillbugs, shining, bright-red from exhilarating exertion, were finally understanding how to balance on the slippery ice lake. Even if one lost their balance, it was met with a jaunty call and a plucky grin before continuing their games. The icicles chimed merrily, hanging from the tree branches and joined the cacophony of shouts and laughter. A trail of clothes ( _fundamentally needless restrictions_ ), which had presumably been applied by loving mothers and caring fathers, started from the tiny shore led back to the small cheery homes in the far distance. These brightly-hued clothes were maybe slight worn and somewhat misshapen but made a stark contrast against the pale snow.

School must have been canceled because of the snow from last night for the children to be out, mid-day. An afternoon, with no worries, surrounded by fifteen or so of your closest friends (at least this week with who you called closest germinating, growing, and shriveling like a raisin in the sun) would have been an ideal component of any childhood, but, especially, Diego felt, _his_. 

Diego, isolated and separated, leaned oh-so casually against the still warm engine of his father’s vehicle. This somber shadow undoubtedly did not belong in this Rockwellian painting and probably should have been relegated to an old draft of the portrait before being caustically erased. He did not belong. The dark brown Tom Ford three-button cashmere overcoat, and the semi-casual hairstyle would have been perfect camouflage back home; here, a needless concealment for the kids who were playing an impromptu game of tag and only peripherally aware of the stranger. Only slightly aware in the same manner that the sun was still high, and they were still allowed to play outside.

Years ago (months, if he were honest; weeks, if he were being excruciatingly so), he had pictured his family behaving in this manner. Ignoring the strict daily schedule planned at the beginning of each week, he and his siblings would have raced outside to join the neighborhood kids in their escapades and would have shown that the Umbrella Academy did not purposely isolate themselves. His siblings, eschewing their typical uniform, would wear what they were allowed to during their weekly playtime. Luther and Allison, making what they thought were covert doe-eyes at one another. Klaus dragging Ben (focused on creating the perfect snowman) to the ground and making a flurry of snow angels. Vanya, humming to herself as her dark eyes took in the rest. His mother, dressed as sunnily as she always did, despite the weather, smiling fondly with mugs of hot chocolate perfectly balanced on a polished silver tray. And his father…

Well, his father did not ever join in on non-mission related activities, why should he be in his daydreams?

(He ignored the Fifth missing piece.)

_Swish-swish_

One of the tinier ones, one who still wore outerwear in the form of a fuchsia knitted cap covering a bevy of braided hair, scrambled closer to his car and held up a snowball in silent question. He slowly shook his head and averted his eyes when she clambered back to her kind with a breathless giggle.

He had just come from another solo mission and had hoped to relax by the pond near a road rarely traveled. He forgot to account for the neighborhood kids. Diego breathed in the cold and cleansing winter air and closed his eyes. He gripped the stack of notecards and began, “W-w-what happens to a d-dream d-d-deferred? Does it-t-t d-d-d-dry, d-d-does it-t-t” He stopped immediately. _Picture the word you’re trying to think of in your mind, Diego_ , the gentle admonishment floated through the air.

He tried instead, “Take me out to the ballgame, take me out to the crowd. Buy me some peanuts and cr-cr-crackerjacks-jacks. I don’t care if they ever come b-back…” The slippery control that seemed to rise and fall on sporadic days (not like a tidal cycle, that’s too timed; rather like a gun-shy hare peeking from its burrow) receded back behind the unapproachable wall. Diego knew that he couldn’t physically force control over the stutter, but sometimes he couldn’t help his subconscious tightening of grip and feeling that he could _make_ it follow his lead.

He started from the beginning, “What happens to a-a dream d-d-d-d-d…” Switch again. “Eeenie, meenie, miny moe. Catch a t-t-tiger by the-the toe. Holler if... If-f holler he-he-h—"

_Crick-crack!_

The distinct and ominous telltale sound of ice breaking shot across the pond louder than a bullet from a rifle. Diego pushed off the car when he heard the scream. The route littered with sweaters and hats and winter clothes which had seemed so jolly seemed to perversely enjoy slowing him up as he sprinted down the bank. Diego nearly plunged face first into a tree trunk, legs tangled in a charming Kelly green and ruby-striped scarf. A yellow, fuzzy blur prevented that.

Because of simple physics, Diego merely was stopped in his tracks while the boy was flung down the bank. Maybe if the situation was less dire, the boy would have acknowledged the pain, but instead he simply gasped from having the breath knocked from him. Diego had a brief portentous flash of a figure, long since disappeared, suddenly and inexplicably rising from that unexplored country to be reincarnated in this random town. It took a picosecond before Diego reassessed his guess—Five would have never let his siblings see snot dribbling down his lips or tears glimmering in his eyes. Not to mention that, of all his siblings, he would have been the least likely to have any friends.

The kid had scrabbled to his feet and grabbed the folds of his clothes in abject terror. “My friend… she slipped and then the ice…she can’t swim and what do I do? Can you call for help? I can’t…” he blubbered inelegantly.

Perhaps if Luther was here, he would have put a comforting if somewhat awkward hand on the kid’s shoulder while giving a gruff word. Perhaps if Allison was here, she would have had a kind word or a soft glance, but it was just Diego. He had no kindness, no softness, and certainly no words to easily give. Just acerbic edges. He shoved the kid towards the road leading to the cheery houses and ordered, “Get help.” As he gathered the scarf that he nearly tripped on and began to careen once again down the hill, a backward glance showed a yellow figure streaking helter-skelter up the slope.

Where they had once played impromptu games of tag and crack-the-whip lay a gaping hole in the ice, framed by fractal patterns of spider-webs. A small crowd of children were hysterically screaming near the shores of the pond. And not just screaming nonsense, Diego surmised as he approached. A name.

“Kendall!”

Within that cavernous maw, he saw a fuchsia knitted cap, precariously perched on the girl’s head. There were no tears on her face, just a quiet whimper and a determination to remain afloat. Her dark eyes found his and her bare hands reached out towards him across an insurmountable distance. Diego began hastily shucking his overcoat, pair of loafers immediately joining the haphazard pile.

He removed his dress shoes and coat, fingered his belt before stripping that as well. The green-and-red striped scarf wrapped around his fist was gathered in a gross parody of a bouquet of flowers. As he undressed, the kids gathered around, relaxing now that a seemingly adult person was there. One of them began to press too close to the edge.

“Get behind me,” He barked, trying to not flinch in realization as to how much like his father he sounded like. A quick scan of the crowd, “Any of you in the S-scouts?” A pair of twin boys raised their hands. “Get some of the scarfs and make me a rope to tie to my ankles.” He quickly searched the crowd before finding the biggest and oldest and telling him, “Grab the end of the rope and when I give the signal, I’m going to try and drag her back.”

The bleak whistling of the wind sharply contradicted with the earlier sounds of mirth; as inexorable as a machine, the kids grimly gathered what he asked for and began to fashion a rudimentary rope, a simple lifeline. In mere moments, it was completed, and Diego gave a couple of sharp tugs in different directions. Hopefully it would hold.

Beginning to tighten one end around his ankle, one of the kids asked, “What do you want us to do?” The rest of the crowd quieted even further, beseeching their savior to speak.

“Help this guy pull me in. No one else get on the ice. I’m not-t-t sure if it can hold anymore.” He scrunched down before going on his belly. “Make sure the rope remains taught and, if I fall in, don’t come after me.” Diego began to shimmy forward, the stripped scarf still wrapped tightly around white knuckles. For just a moment, he paused judging the sound of the ice, before deeming it passable and moving further towards the break near the center. The fabric of multiple scarfs rubbed comfortingly against his ankle.

Once, when he was just a babe and still had delusions that his family could ever behave normally, Diego had hoped to prove a point by locking himself in his room. His budding sense of justice rebelled against another long and dry lesson on ancient Greek history, a lesson that primarily focused on Grecian military conquest. Diego could still remember Luther’s shimmering eyes as he practically glowed about tales of conquering and victory and himself using a recently-learned technique of rolling his eyes. It was easy to look at the victors on their summit and even easier still to ignore the pile of bodies they used to climb to the top. 

After having to read aloud to his siblings one too many times for this lesson (“Everyone has to take a turn, Diego dear. We’re not picking on you specifically.”) he had stomped to his room. Vocally claiming to want no one, but secretly hoping his mom would come. He got his wish. Their mom calmly knocked on his door and asked to be let in. If it were anyone else, he would have proudly ignored them, but his mother, the only one he could tolerate on any given day had asked. Diego let her in.

After letting him sit on her lap, an act he was decidedly getting too big for, she rubbed his back comfortingly and began to weave a tale of ancient Grecian kings. Swords looming and swinging ominously over royal heads seemed endlessly fascinating to him, a fantastical tale they weren’t typically allowed to hear about. Fascinating, especially compared to battle tactics. Diego let his mother persuade him to come back to the lessons and try again. It wasn’t until a few years ago that he realized that his mother still followed his father’s lesson plans concerning power and the responsibilities associated with it, albeit with a slightly modified subject. He should have known that even when he was rebelling, he would need to follow Reginald Hargreeves’ will. Childish tantrums be damned.

This sword, he imagined as he crawled forward, was prominent in many distinct instances in his childhood. If he were Number Two, he _must_ fight for his position in the family hierarchy, guarding it jealously, yet coveting being Number One. No fair and square. Just cold and relentless.

Right now, the atmosphere felt taut; the horsetail holding the sword aloft, thrumming like it were recently plucked by deft fingers. The makeshift rope wrapped around his ankle faintly echoed this tension.

About two yards from the hole, Diego paused to catch his breathe. The ice that been a safe alabaster had allowed an encroaching muted gray beneath its surface. Unsafe. Unfortunately, he would have to venture even farther forward to reach the girl. It was a relative miracle that no one else had ventured over to this side of the pond. He flexed his fingers before calling softly, “I’m gonna toss one end of this scarf for you to grab. Hold on tight and I’ll pull you out.” The gaze that had seemed so piercing before had faded into a vague confusion, before she gave a slight nod of consent. Diego’s aim, as true with an underhand toss as with his knife throws, landed on the edge of the broken ice. The little brown fingers grasped it before slipping as Diego tried to tug her onto the ice. Her head dipped under the water before rising slowly. Too slowly.

“Kendall, I know you can do it. Just hold it and I’ll do all the w-work.” Another nod and another attempt and another miss. Her fingers were too cold and could not grasp the scarf tight enough. Diego edged even closer, the scarf abandoned to the side and his hand outstretched to reach her. With his head resting against the ice, he could hear the foreboding _crick-crack_ of countless shards of ice splintering and weakening. The gray ice had become nearly black; it was now a race against the clock.

Finally, he snagged her limp wrist and began to pull the kid out of the water when the ice ruptured completely. More shouts before Diego fell in and silence blanketed him.

Agonizing, excruciating, _piercing_ pain. And not even just a sharp pain but a numbing one. When Diego was eleven, he was shot in the shoulder by a gangbanger and _oh god_ had it hurt and hurt and hurt and he had to be the brave soldier, he couldn’t cry and he clutched his shoulder, the wounded hero and the police officers didn’t notice (too embarrassed that a child did a better job) and his siblings didn’t notice (too giddy on the elevation that came from being good) but his mother noticed the unshed tears and wrapped his shoulder with bandages and patted his head before his father demanded that he finish the job and how can Diego expect greatness if he couldn’t even accept pain and he festered and festered like a sore over that—

The arctic water fully encapsulated his head before he was able to quickly break the surface—gasping and heaving like a newborn whale calf that had just breached.

Diego scrambled to the side where Kendall had been holding on. Only her fuchsia cap was visible. He yanked her up and began treading water. The shouts he had heard earlier began to distinguish themselves from a discordant cacophony to specific strands of sound. He could barely see more additional figures gathering on the shore. Carmine lights flashed even further away as a siren blared. Nonetheless, the omnipresent thrum _hmm_ ed through the air.

So, is this what happens when he tries to save people? A lazy ice floe drifted towards his shoulder. He had always been taught to follow the plan, to assess potential threats and act accordingly. While saving civilians was ideal, it should not come at the cost of bringing detriment to one’s self. The movement and the kids and the cracking ice seemed to slow down to a crawl. The frigidity deepened, sinking below the skin and burrowing below his bone marrow.

_Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?_

What…what if he stopped? He was a _fighter_. Mom had always said he was a fighter but, what if he stopped? There was too little time and too little to go back to. He was a fighter. Always. But. He was just _so_ tired. The gray mid-day sun seemed to washout the previous bright hues.

Little pinpricks of light danced on the back of his eyelids. Wait. When had he closed his eyes? Breathe, Diego. Just breathe.

Short puffs of white. Shivering. Sinking… His nose dipped under. Breathe. Just breat—

A fuchsia pompom lazily bummed against brow. The kid.

Diego physically and mentally shook as he pushed through the water to grab the skinny arm. He floundered as he wrenched both of them from the water like a dandelion seed, bereft off a breath. A deep breath.

A marigold rope formed a large opening around him. Diego sluggishly lifted his arm and allowed the rope to tighten. “Hold on, son,” came a wizened voice, “We almost got you.” Despite how some might view his speech impediment, Diego was not an idiot. But he felt like one staring at this verifiable stranger. A stranger that somehow was able to call him son after ten seconds when the man who claimed them as his own couldn’t even call Diego as his name or a basic term of endear—

“What’s your name, son?” The man at the edge of the ice (Fire Rescue, came the clinical part of Diego’s mind which was constantly trained to be observing despite any outside stressor) asked. “I think you missed summer swimming season by a couple o’ months.”

“D-Diego.” His teeth chattered out; the stammer was impossible to distinguish between the strands of cold.

“Hello, Diego,” he cheerfully replied, “The name is Forrester. Call me Forest. No jokes about a fireman being named ‘Forest’ though. Trust me—I’ve heard them all.” Even as he talked, the sharp blue eyes twinkled as his gnarled hands moved fast tightening the rope around the two in the water. He gave an experimental tug, first on his white beard, then on the rope.

“So, I guess calling y-you Santa is off the tab-b-ble?”

“Well,” he sounded veritably pleased, “maybe if you can name the eight reindeer he has...” Forest shimmied backwards on his belly as he inexorably drew the two towards the edge of the ice. Diego noticed how a similarly braided rope was tightened around his waist that brightly contrasted his dark windbreaker.

“Easy.”

“…in alphabetical order?”

“Doesn’t s-seem very jolly or seasonal of you.”

“Ho-ho-ho,” the blue eyes added agreeably.

Kendall’s breathes could barely be felt against his neck, perhaps because his skin was also chilled. They finally bumped against the edges of the broken ice. He warily braced his hand against them. Before he could push the girl up and onto the ice, the other man called out: “Diego, I’m gonna need you to still hold onto her; I’m gonna do the fun work of pulling you and my buddy on shore is gonna have the even more fun job of pulling all of us.”

Diego paused, then gave a slight nod of assent.

“Slowly edge both of you up and over the edge and I’ll slide you along the ice onto the path that I took.” Diego shifted the bundle in his hands as he tried to follow instructions and pull both him and Kendall out of the water.

_CRACK!_ went the ice and _KERPLUNK_! went the two. Immediately, the rope tightened around his chest and yanked him up.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Forest soothed. Diego coughed out murky water and rapidly blinked the water out of his eyes. He would never, ever swim in a local watering hole like this again if he could help it. “Sometimes ice does that; nothing to be done about that. We’ll have to try again.”

Diego coughed some more.

“We still good, Diego?”

“Just ready to get out of this ninth circle of hell.”

“Hey, at least you don’t have my kids to go home to,” he joked. “Ready to try again, Diego?”

“Sir, yessir.”

He was once again pulled firmly to a stable edge, rolling his shoulders fully in preparation. Diego slowly gripped the edge and pulled his and Kendall’s body from the water. True to his word, Forest pulled them towards the shore, studying the ice as they moved along. First his chest, then his waist, and finally his legs were on the ice. After seemingly hours, but more likely a few minutes, they were no longer submerged in the water.

_Submerge. Submerged...? What’s the opposite of submerged?_ he thought groggily, _Un-submerged? Merged?_ Woolen mitts roughly shook his shoulders. “Back with me, Diego?” Crystal blue eyes winked at his. “I’m gonna need you to do one more thing for me.” He hefted Kendall like she was a bale of hay across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. “I’m gonna get pulled to the shore and give this little girl,” he patted the kid, “to my friend at the shore.”

He pulled Diego to a sitting position, “I need you to stay awake until I come back for you. Then, I’ll pull you too.” Forest quickly unwrapped a safety blanket that had been sitting innocuously next to him and expertly wrapped it around Diego’s shoulders. “Just hold tight, kid.”

“I’ll…I’ll be waiting.”

Forest gave a lazy salute as the rope around his waist pulled him to shore. His figure rapidly shrunk as he was pulled to the shore.

Diego couldn’t help but lazily study the sky as he waited. The snowfall began to intensify. About this time, Mom would begin to gather his errant siblings to study (for even with weather extremes there was no leniency in this rule) in the main hall next to a roaring, _crackling_ fireplace. One of his earliest memories was crowding around his siblings on an early winter’s eve near the heart. He could still smell the linseed oil in the humongous world atlas as they dreamed of different lands and different times. Diego snickered on the ice. (Was this ecstasy of saving a life? Or hysteria? Or the feelings of release from his familial chains? Or…?)

“What h-happens to a dr-dream def—"

Forest slid next to Diego, making no comment to his words. He gathered Diego and gave two swift yanks, “Alright, kid,” the rope attached pulled taut and begin to inexorably drag them, “Let’s go home.”

The paramedic, Forest’s partner, a lanky blonde woman with a button nose, helped him to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kendall being loaded onto the ambulance, door closing.

The two medics around him continued in a monotonous intonation, a practiced ease and levity of professionalism.

As the blonde moved her hand to take his temperature, her wrist exposed a well-worn wristwatch. The face, though a bit dingy—she turned to grab something from her medic bag.

“Wait,” he choked out and clumsily reached for her wrist.

She perched her eyebrows and looked at her partner. Forest shrugged his shoulders.

It felt like any time he tried to communicate, and his speech impediment got in his way. The gazed and confused glances. The attempts to help. The molasses atmosphere which impeded his movement (how could he forget his first aid training his father had drilled into their heads at a young age? This was no esoteric theory that Vanya seemed to study religiously in an attempt to do something, _anything_ useful) finally allowed him to mime a wristwatch.

“Oh, it’s 6:25.”

…

Shit. He was late.

Diego stood up, made sure that his legs were in agreement to support him, and stumbled off to his car. Though he would probably make much better time if the hills would stop undulating. The two tried to stop him, but he shook off their helpful hands.

“Nothing, it’s nothing. I’m fine. I’m a Hargreeves.”

_Or fester like a sore—And then run?_

The car door slammed shut. He briefly rested his head against the steering wheel before starting the car and rumbling away from the now silent pond.

—

He heard her before he saw her.

Humming that same tuneless melody. As if having this quirk could somehow ape the typical ineptitude of the human coil. Diego shook his head. No point in bringing any moroseness to the mansion. His father would dismiss it with aplomb. “What are you doing here, sweetheart?” Even with her advanced programming, their mother struggled when things or people were out of place. Mind you, raising seven children meant that she was more flexible than most, but her ease at adjusting circumstances had fallen since their childhood. To her, children were not to be in the servitude places in the house. She did not appear to notice that her second eldest was dripping wet.

“Nothing, Mom,” he said with practiced ease as he began to shuffle off his coat, “Just coming in from a snowball fight with the others.”

She indicated to the shoe-drier near the entrance. “Make sure to take off your coat and shoes. I’ll clean them in a moment.”

He shuffled past her; she went back to hat same meaningless tune.

—

“Dinner begins promptly at 6:45, Number Two.” A voice behind a newspaper said.

His siblings said nothing but exchanged furtive glances with one another. Luther cleared his throat once, before his eyes caught Diego’s and he was guilted into silence. Luther was still so easy to cow by the true and actual authority. Diego had to grit his teeth to prevent the automatic lashing out at still being belittled. Edith Piaf, a particular favorite of his father, continued to lovingly croon her song.

“I was busy,” he gritted out.

“Because you did not feel the need to be timely, you may wait in your room,” was the callous response.

Luther coughed once, attracting the attention of all his siblings except for Klaus who was watching the back-and-forth with the apt attention of an attendee to their favorite sporting event. Klaus jumped in his seat, as if kicked by an unknown assailant. He glared at Luther who exaggerated with his eyes his ignored meal. A faux pout then a return to dinner normalcy. Silence continued to reign, except for Edif.

The sharp burn of being reprimanded like a child caused his vitriolic response, “So, you’re punishing a teenager with no d-desert?”

The tension, high upon first entering, which had been inching down, skyrocketed back up. He would not allow himself to be cowed.

_Or crust and sugar over—like a syrupy sweet?_

The newspaper lowered slightly saw the austere gaze was focused entirely on Diego. He did not say a word. Diego tried to stand tall, but under the barrage of stares—slight horror from his siblings, sympathy from Pogo, frozen vacancy from Mom, and complete and utter _nothingness_ from their father—he wilted. Mom gently wrapped one hand around his shoulder (when did he get tall enough to stand abreast with her) as she led him away. “Let’s listen to your father, Diego.”

The newspaper returned to place.

—

“What-t happens t-to a dream d-deferred-d,” his teeth chattered. His notecards lay in a jumbled mess at the foot of his bed.

As he laid huddled under his duvet, he heard a cautious creaking of his bedroom door. _Errkkh_ groaned his door; _chk-chk_ replied his floor as slippered feet crossed his bedroom towards his bed. Diego peeked out (he was _not_ hiding—he was too old for childish games before he had even been the right age to enjoy such things) at the intruder. A little solemn face greeted him, pale and drawn.

Vanya.

“What do you want?” Couldn’t he enjoy his solitude (read: _punishment_ ) in peace?

She ignored him and climbed on his bed. Diego wanted to lash out, shove her off his bed, but she curled against his side and choose to ignore any feeble (err, _assertive_ ) request. He sniffed.

Ben and Klaus, like thieves in the night, stole into his room through the open door. Ben, quiet as he was, merely walked to his bed. Klaus, exuberant as he was, took a flying leap and landed partially on the bed, but mostly on Diego and Vanya.

“Hiya, chum, pal, O brother of mine.” So, no apology. Typical Klaus. “We,” he indicated Ben and himself, as if no one could infer who he was talking about, “came to visit you in your time of need and exile from the grace of our beloved Father.”

“Yeah, I was-s just tryna get Van—”

“And we figured,” here came that fox-sly grin that crinkled his eyes which Klaus was infamous for. Ben merely rolled his eyes and climbed more carefully into the bed. “That we could provide you sustenance in solidarity of your protests.” He presented two crumbling apple pie slices, still slightly warm from the oven.

Apologetic: “Dinner was mostly done, so we couldn’t sneak you any food, but Pops wasn’t paying attention when—” He was interrupted from a one-handed hug from Diego. The other hand gripped Ben.

“Thank you.”

“Room for some more?” A hermit-like figure flitted into the room, cloaked by a large umber quilt that had a fair portion dragging on the ground. Their Mom had inexplicably made it one quiet afternoon. She had deigned it a family blanket with each of their names lovingly stitched in multiple times with various colors. It was much, much too large for any bed, so it often sat in the highest shelf in the coat closet. Diego had forgotten about it.

Allison whipped it off ( _God preserve us from dramatic siblings_ he thought indulgently) before tossing it on the bed occupants. There was a mad scramble to uncover heads; Vanya and the others gave her a quizzical glance.

She simply said, “He looked cold.”

Nods.

“Come on, Luther,” she waved to a motionless shadow in the doorway.

Luther gave a sheepish grin, hands in his pocket. His _ah shucks, you mean me?_ All-American boy, golden leader routine made Diego’s hackles begin to raise. He started to disparage Luther, but Vanya, solemn Vanya, seemingly sensing this and pressed tighter into his side. He paused before begrudgingly admitting the eldest into his impromptu court.

Through some silent agreement, the siblings began to arrange themselves on his bed.

For a moment, he felt suspended in time, like he was cast back into that motionless inky-black depth. Trapped. Staring up at the out-of-reach light.

_Maybe it just sags like a heavy load._

Someone’s hand tenderly grasped his shoulder.

He held his breath for a second and trembled as his siblings’ warmth and motion and _livingness_ enveloped him. And then he breathed. And breathed.

_Or does it explode?_

**Author's Note:**

> ...And maybe I can’t help but wish their relationships were slightly less dysfunctional than they are shown in canon.


End file.
